


you heard it here last

by TolkienGirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Infinity War, Sushi, mentions of the mysterious Uncle Ben death, post-Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: A teenager talking about ethics is a little terrifying, but also why he found the kid in the first place.
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Kudos: 48





	you heard it here last

The nigiri is impeccable. The kid clearly agrees, because he scarfs one down instantly.

Tony smiles. It might be a fond smile, but there is no one here to call him out on it. 

“Dive right in, why don’t you. No pictures for the ‘gram?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m super inactive. And my—my, uh, my friend thinks food-blogging is kind of unethical.”

Tony is staggered. A teenager talking about _ethics_. It’s a little terrifying, but also why he found the kid in the first place. “Is it?”

“Yeah. She—I hear it contributes to gentrification.”

Avengers Tower probably contributed to gentrification. Tony sighs.

“You—you Millennials.”

“I’m not a Millennial.” Peter hiccoughs that _you’re old_ laugh that is endemic to kids everywhere. “Gen Z, dude—uh, I mean, Mr. Stark. I was born in 2001.”

Tony was— _god_ , Tony was a full-grown man in 2001, and making a very poor showing of it.

“I was born a month and a day before 9/11,” Peter says speculatively. He talks with food in his mouth, when he’s speculative. “Isn’t that weird? Some of the kids in my class have it for their birthdays.” He reaches for a much-needed napkin, then asks, “Where—where were you?”

 _Rehab. For the third time._ “Nowhere near here. I emigrated later. Makes me a fake New Yorker.”

“Nah, you saved the City. That counts.” Peter grins, taking some sashimi. “Thanks for lunch, Mr. Stark. This sushi’s bomb.”

“Chef’s a friend of mine.” He says it absently. He’s thinking of something else—or rather, he’s thinking of the whole reason he came here in the first place.

It certainly wasn’t just to see the kid.

“Peter?”

“Mr. Stark?”

“You haven’t activated your suit for two weeks.”

He expects a blush. Peter always blushes when he’s challenged on anything. It’s like the world’s most endearing poker tell.

But Peter puts his chopsticks down, and takes a sip of water, and looks a little grave.

“It’s—has anything bad happened, sir? On the streets?”

You’d think Howard raised him, what with all the formality that sneaks into his speech no matter how many times Tony tells him _it’s fine, it’s fine, please! Mr. Stark was my father—_

_—and I’m nothing like him._

“The NYPD keep up their little games, don’t worry. And I’ve got my eye on the boroughs, generally.”

“That’s good.”

Tony resists the nervous urge to snap his fingers with impatience, to insist on revelations. He never gets exactly what he wants, when he wants it. The world likes to crash on him later, all at once.

So, for now, he just waits. Pepper would be (patiently) proud of him.

“It’s for May.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just thought I’d give her a break.”

In recent memory, Tony has been on the business end of a phone call from May Parker that would put a fire under one of Loki’s Jotun friends. He isn’t entitled to her softer side.

“She’s still acclimating.”

“Pretty well, actually.” Peter fiddles with his chopsticks. “But it’s…November.”

Tony considers this. Stops, and considers it again.

He’s read the files.

“Ah,” he says at last, exactly where he hates to be—the space between death and life, which is, to be precise, knowing too much about the death of a stranger. “Right. Sorry about that.”

(He didn’t cause Ben Parker’s death, just like Steve Rogers didn’t cause Maria’s. It’s a strange, thankless guilt, become overeager catalyst for later, hopefully lesser harms.)

( _I’m nothing like him._ )

“It’s sucky,” Peter says, still too quiet. He pops another nigiri in his mouth, chews, swallows. “But I figured, if I’m going to die, I won’t do it around the same time.”

“You’re not going to die.” Tony has barely eaten anything. Best sushi place in FiDi, and he’s just—he’s not hungry. “Not before May, at any rate. Not before me.”

“Add May Parker to the list, then.”

“Tony.” Pepper is stirring spaghetti sauce on the stove. She has a fleck of it on her cheek, because the kitchen is smaller than they’re used to. Tony, when he gets out from under this crippling depression, is going to pull some specs put together, is going to build this into something else.

All of this is going to become something else.

“What?”

“You can’t get keep a list. It’s too much.”

“Gone at the same second,” Tony says, stretching out on the couch. It’s a good couch. Everything here is good or will be, even the too-small kitchen. He has money. Money still pays for something. It’s just that the furniture is arriving in bits and pieces, because putting demands on small businesses seems like an incredibly shitty thing to do right now. They’re struggling to keep their lights on in the City; it isn’t worth their while to drag a bunch of junk upstate.

As it is, Tony hauls what he can.

In a pickup truck!

Cap stole a pickup truck once, Tony heard, through the sick war-story grapevine they used to keep going. Fruit of the poisonous tree, that was. Or sour grapes.

He’s mixing his metaphors. It’s the depression.

“The same second.” Pepper must know it’s safer to affirm what he’s saying without pushing much further. “The same second as him?”

Ok, maybe she pushes a little.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger.

“I’m a hypocrite,” he mutters. “But I’ll only say that to you.”

“Never thought we’d miss the mass graves. But it just makes your job that much harder, doesn’t it? Putting the pieces together.”

Natasha is quiet on the other end of the line.

The dream—the dream that the stone gave him, before _he_ gave the world Ultron—

_I outlive._

Morgan walks early, for a baby. Tony only knows this because he read all the books. _The Baby Owner’s Manual._ He liked that one. _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_. Pepper hated that one. Said she was through with predictions of the future.

Tony likes the look of the future, if the future is Morgan’s round dark eyes and delicate paws. She scuttles under his feet, grabs onto his knees, pulls herself up.

“You’re a strange sort of insect, little miss,” Tony says, letting her use his thumbs like joysticks. There are so few planes, these days. People afraid of flying, like that was what killed them.

(It killed some of them, of course, when the pilots went to dust.)

Maybe Morgan will—

No, no. Better to stay safely on the earth, under the sky. Things just as they should be.

_If I’m going to die—_

_Yes,_ Tony thinks, in one quiet instant when the future can be clearly seen, _if I’m going to die._

_We won, and you did it, sir._


End file.
